


Cut Above The Rest

by Jupiterra



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Substance Abuse, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: Alfred kills himself. Warnings were given.





	1. Chapter 1

For all Alfred's strength and grace, he was as breakable as glass. The golden blonde idol of America could fall as fantastically as he could soar for the heavens. Breaking into his home was as easy as shattering his giant ego. Ivan slipped in through a window with movements as smooth as shadows. 

Picking his way through the colourful home, Ivan touched nothing. Nothing was worth stealing. It was all expensive trash Alfred had surrounded himself with to feel special anyway. Soon upstairs, Ivan opened the bathroom door. It was a sight within that would frighten most. Ivan barely cared. It was Alfred, dead in a tub of bloody water, eyes in resting squint. Like all nations, the former boy king was immortal. Killing himself would only grant a days of peace at best.

Ivan, pale and tall, was washed out by all this crimson like the crisp white floor tiles. He gingerly slouched and leaned over the tub edge. “Oh, my lapushka, my little sunflower... You cannot escape the mortal coil. But you knew that... you knew...” An affectionate ruffling of golden hair poking above the bloody tub water.

A few days of peace. It was enough to bring Alfred's body home, enshrine it in blankets and fine clothing... Maybe this pleasant awakening would fool the American into thinking he had died finally, passing on. Maybe... Maybe not. But it was a few days of owning a new toy all the same.

Ivan lifted the naked dead body from the tub with no concern for his own clothes. They were only objects of no concern. This was his fallen angel to take home, if only for a short time. "My angel of the sun, I will resurrect you."


	2. Chapter 2

**DAYS BEFORE**

Alfred paced his gilded cage, strung high like tension wire. His eyes were blow wider than the universe, darker than the ends of time. Alfred had been so confused and anxious before, but now he was barely attached to the earth. He saw everything, and therefore saw nothing.

He had ingested every drug in his house with the best of intentions. As an immortal being, he basically had to shoot himself in the head to actually die. Even then, it was short lived victory. This allowed all living nations vast liberties of substance abuse. This time, the trip was not going great. The trip was a stumble.

He could see the 1950's facade he clung to, worn like chipping plastic around him. He could see the hopeful glimmers of his own people in his blood, sparkling yet fading. How the blood had ended up outside his body, he was unsure of. He was trying to made toast, but had burnt the bread and walked away.

Burnt toast.

Burnt cigarettes.

Burnt houses.

Burnt babies.

Thick ugly truth seeped through Alfred's eyes as he stared at the bathroom mirror. The plastic shell of a life he had constructed for himself was cracking and fading in the searing heat of reality. The tar like insides were escaping now. The black substance was bubbling out of his eyes, his mouth, his cut up palms.

He tried to wash it off, but it wasn't working. A horrible realization came to Alfred. This foul oil was his blood. He wasn't infected by greed and hatred, he had become greed and hatred. The inconceivable suddenly became clear, like bursting through a barrier to the truth.

Alfred was not the hero. He never was the hero. Alfred was the monster. He was the atomic bomb, the drone, the internment camp. He was that one last cigarette that pushed you over the edge and gave you lung cancer. Somewhere along the way, he became blind and clawed through the flesh of the innocent he was chosen to rescue.

What... What if he was never the chosen one at all? Was Alfred _not special_?

This thought unfolded his self centred galaxy like bad origami. Hyper ventilating from panic, he stumbled to the tub. There was water in it from earlier, when he forgot he was going to have a bath. That was somewhere after the universe melting but before the burnt toast.

He was special! He was a hero! He was Alfred Foster Jones! He would show the world exactly what they were missing. Childishly grabbing the gun he dropped on the floor earlier, he eased in the water. Placing the muzzle of his loyal machine to a temple, Alfred grinned. He was going to be the hero for sure. He was going to kill the greatest monster he knew.

**BANG!**


End file.
